Free Black Fridays by Michael Sears Page B

up the stairs.
    There was a sudden scurry of footsteps from the landing above and I looked up in time to see the Kid at the top of the stairs. He was humming loudly, a single note, and hopping from one foot to the other, his arms outstretched.
    “EeeeeeeeeEEEEEE.” He got louder and louder. The scream was undoubtedly coming from a little five-year-old cherub, but it had a remarkably mechanical sound. It took a moment before I recognized it. It was a near-perfect rendition of the sound of a jet engine revving for takeoff.
    And then he took off. The Kid threw himself off the landing and out into space, arms wide, like airplane wings. He didn’t hang in the air. There was no magical moment when his belief in his ability to fly outdid the laws of physics. Time did not slow to an agonizing, portentous crawl. The Kid just fell. Like a rock.
    I raised my hands and caught him, staggering back down a step or two with the sudden weight. The Kid laughed and wriggled, flapping his arms and occasionally kicking his feet, as though to go higher.
    I backed carefully down the stairs, holding him as high as I could. Mamma appeared behind me and began yelling something about putting him down “right this minute,” but I ignored her. I was busy remembering. Remembering holding this same boy as a baby, high overhead, just as I was doing now, and watching his often stony features break into a wild grin. We were doing it again. He was years older, and many pounds heavier, and his wriggling kicks were already tiring my upraised arms, but we were both in momentary heaven.
    We traveled back through the front room, with me swooping him down over the couch and the armchair. He squealed and giggled. This was what two years away had robbed me of; this was what my mistake had cost me.
    My arms were beginning to quiver and I brought the Kid down and landed him gently on the couch. He lay there for a moment, gasping and giggling. I collapsed beside him, shaking a cramp out of my arm. For an instant, I was happier than I had been in years.
    And in that instant he looked into my eyes. They were his mother’s eyes—the same ice-blue, pale and startling. I felt my throat choking up.
    He looked away, leaped to his feet, and began dancing in front of me, arms uplifted as though demonstrating exactly what he wanted.
    “No way, Kid. You almost did me in. I’m going to need a good long rest after that.”
    He danced faster and the look of happy expectation began to morph into a mask of anxiety. He began the keening “Eeee” of the jet.
    “Nope. Not now. No, Kid. I’d love to, but if I tried right now I’d drop you.” I stood up and reached for one of his flapping hands.
    His distress increased exponentially. The noise from his throat was an ugly, angry growl. The color of his face went from pink to red to purple. His eyes lost their focus and began wandering erratically, seemingly disconnected from each other and the rest of his face.
    I bent down and reached out to hold him. “Come on, Kid. It’s okay. We can do this again later.”
    He turned and raced for the stairs. I raced after him. He was fast and had moves that Curtis Martin would have envied. We passed Mamma in the hallway—her arms were folded across her chest and her face glowered with suppressed anger. She didn’t even try to stop him.
    I got to the bottom of the stairs just as he reached the top. He turned and began the dance again.
    “No! Kid, no!” I advanced up two steps. He was weeping and drooling, but there was still some crazed, desperate hope in his eyes. “No! Not now! Later!”
    “Wanna get away!” he cried, and threw himself off a second time.
    I got my hands up in time, but I wasn’t centered to take the sudden weight. My arms still felt shaky. We both went down. I fell to the landing, the Kid cushioned by me, but still shaken. I was hurt. Nothing broken, I could tell, but I wasn’t going to be out running for the next day or two.
    The Kid sat up, wrapped his arms